Night had deepened over Tokyo, and the glow of countless windows painted the cityscape into a dazzling sea of light.
Takuya Nakayama had just finished a late-night conference call with the North American development team. With a cup of tea in hand, he was finally ready to enjoy a rare moment of peace — when the shrill ring of his desk phone broke the silence.
He glanced at the screen. The call was international — from Beijing.
He picked it up. Static hissed faintly through the line, mixed with a voice that sounded soft, tired, and slightly aggrieved.
"Hello?"
"Takuya…"
Just two words — but that was enough for him to sense something was wrong.
The "Cooking Master" project had officially started production in Beijing. As the project lead, Eri Nakagawa was supposed to be at her most energetic right now.
"What's wrong? You sound… off," Takuya asked gently.
On the other end, Eri's tone carried exhaustion and frustration. She no longer sounded like the upbeat, confident producer he knew in Tokyo — but more like a small, drenched kitten, helpless and weary.
"Eri? Are you getting used to things over there?"
"Not at all!"
Once she started, it all came pouring out — days' worth of pent-up irritation bursting like a dam.
"People here are so weird!"
"We came here to collaborate, right? On the surface, they're super polite — 'Miss Nakagawa' this, 'Producer Eri' that — all smiles, perfect manners."
"But the second you try to actually do something, everything just stops moving!"
She took a deep breath, speaking faster and faster.
"Today we were supposed to film a segment with a local noodle master. When we got there, one of their guys said, 'Oh, sorry, Director Wang from PR isn't in today — we'll have to wait for his approval first.'"
"So we asked when he'd be back, and they just kept saying, 'Soon, soon.' And guess what? My whole crew — dozens of people — sat there doing nothing all afternoon!"
"And don't even get me started on the gear we brought from Japan. The cameras have to be registered before we can use them, and we've spent three days filling out paperwork! Everyone we talk to just says, 'Not my department,' and pushes us to someone else!"
"I feel like I'm not producing a show — I'm running a daycare full of stubborn adults who refuse to listen!"
Her voice was thick with frustration, trembling slightly as she spoke.
Takuya stayed quiet, letting her vent until she had nothing left to unload.
He could easily imagine it — Eri, who'd always worked in Tokyo's ultra-efficient, responsibility-driven TV culture, suddenly dropped into a completely different system. It was no wonder she felt lost and overwhelmed.
"You've done well."
When he finally spoke, his voice was calm and warm. Just three words — but they felt like a gentle wave washing over her anger.
For a few seconds, there was only silence. He could hear her soft breathing on the other end.
"I… I must be useless, huh? I can't even handle something this simple," she murmured, voice laced with self-doubt.
"How could you be?" Takuya chuckled lightly. "You're just using the wrong map — trying to walk straight through a maze."
"Map?" Eri asked, puzzled.
"Let me ask you something," Takuya continued, his tone taking on that calm, guiding rhythm she knew so well. "What's our real goal with this project?"
"Of course — to make a beautifully produced documentary that showcases the depth and artistry of Chinese cuisine!" she answered instantly, her producer instincts kicking in.
"No."
Takuya's denial came crisp and immediate.
"That's an abstract goal — not the real objective."
"Our core goal," he said, "is to get a high-quality, family-friendly daytime program on Tokyo TV — one that looks premium but stays within budget, boosts ratings among housewives, and increases our ad conversion numbers."
Eri froze, taken aback.
"So—"
"So," he continued, "it doesn't matter if the documentary is the best ever made. It doesn't even matter if we fully 'manage' the local team."
His words were slow, deliberate, every syllable landing with clarity.
"What matters is this: can we, within the scheduled time and set budget, collect enough footage — in our style — to edit into a complete show for Tokyo broadcast?"
"Their procedures, their relationships, their internal politics — those are their rules. You're trying to understand them, even change them. That was your mistake from the start."
Eri's breath caught.
The tangled mess in her head suddenly felt like it had been sliced clean through.
"Then… what should I do?" she asked, her voice trembling with anticipation.
"It's simple," Takuya said casually. "Delegate — and pay."
"Huh?"
"Find someone on their side who's respected and actually wants to get things done. Make that person ours."
"Give your local co-producer more autonomy and a flexible budget — call it something like 'site coordination' or 'logistics overhead.' The label doesn't matter. What matters is that it makes their lives easier."
"How they spend it — that's not our business. We just want results: how many shots per day, how many minutes of footage per week."
"As long as they deliver on schedule, they keep the surplus. The faster they work, the more they earn."
Eri's eyes widened — she understood instantly. Her cheeks flushed. "Wait, isn't that kind of like—"
"It's called lubrication," Takuya interrupted smoothly. "Their machine runs on this system. If we try to twist it with our own wrench, we'll just strip the screws. Add a little of their own oil, and it'll run smoothly. It's called local adaptation — a standard part of project management. Totally professional. Don't overthink it."
That deadpan logic made Eri burst out laughing despite herself. Her frustration finally began to melt away.
"Stop judging by our standards, Eri. Remember — we're here to buy something, not to act as consultants teaching them efficiency."
"Think of it like this — you're at a crowded farmers' market. It's chaotic, people are shouting, rules are vague. But your goal isn't to fix the market. It's to buy the freshest vegetables and go home."
"And one more thing," Takuya added. "If they want to film some extra material — like leadership visits or group photos — let them. How much could a few extra reels of film cost us? Compare that to hotel fees, crew wages, and production delays — it's the cheapest investment we can make for progress."
"You can even tell them openly — when we're done, they can keep a copy of the master footage and cut their own domestic version. It gives them something to show their bosses, and that makes them eager to help us."
"I…"
Eri was speechless.
All those problems that had felt unsolvable — suddenly looked trivial.
"Takuya…" After a pause, her voice returned, filled with admiration. "You're… you're a genius."
These issues had frustrated her team for days. Yet with just a few sentences, he had untangled everything.
"I'm just shameless, that's all," Takuya joked lightly. His voice softened again. "Don't stress too much. Remember — I've got your back."
That simple line warmed her more deeply than any plan could.
"Because you're my girlfriend, after all."
The moment he said it, Eri's cheeks flamed, and her heart fluttered with a sweet, overwhelming mix of joy and pride.
All her exhaustion and frustration dissolved like mist.
This man — he would always be her steady anchor, her lighthouse in the fog.
"I know what to do now!" Eri said firmly, her voice once again bright with confidence. "Thank you, Takuya!"
"Take care of yourself," he replied gently. "I'll be waiting for good news."
"Mm!"
When she hung up, Eri stayed still for a moment, gripping the receiver tightly. Strength surged through her once more.
Turning to the window, she looked out at the unfamiliar skyline of Beijing — but this time, her gaze was no longer uncertain. It was clear, determined, and full of purpose.
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